


Little do we know

by poeticjustice22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Flirting, Eventual Fluff, Fatherhood, Feelings Realization, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Head Auror Harry Potter, Insults, M/M, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pre-Slash, Rating May Change, Snarky Draco Malfoy, Swearing, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticjustice22/pseuds/poeticjustice22
Summary: When Harry and Draco grudgingly meet up and find common ground in their shared concern of their sons’ choice of partners, their old animosity starts to slowly change into something neither of them expected to find.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Haven’t read The Cursed Child, so please disregard the canon storyline after the epilogue, other than Scorpius and Albus forming a close, possibly romantic friendship.  
> This is a WIP and I'm still not sure how fluffy/graphic/Slow Burn the slash is going to be, other than I want Draco and Harry to form a connection, become attracted to each other and explore this relationship, so bear with me.  
> Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.

Draco narrowed his eyes, meeting the dark-green ones across from him. Latent animosity surged within his chest.

 _Saint. Bloody. Potter_.

Forcefully reminding himself to remain civil (for as long as Potter behaved), he reached out to shake the other man’s outstretched hand. Why he should be surprised that the skin of Potter’s strong palm felt calloused to the touch, he wasn’t sure; given Potter’s perilous profession it was only to be expected. Yet, Draco hadn’t quite expected it to have any effect on him.

Quickly releasing the other man’s hand, Draco schooled his features into a trademark sneer. Potter seemed to assess him with guarded reservation, lingering on the silver-headed cane as if he suspected him to draw his wand at any moment. Draco refrained from visibly rolling his eyes. _How typical_. Not that he wasn’t tempted, mind you.

Coolly regarding Potter in turn, he begrudgingly noticed the Auror uniform and the beard suited his childhood rival in his adult years though Draco would _never_ admit so out loud. It was preferable to imagine that Potter had simply grown into his looks; that nest of hair and those spectacles seemed _less_ unfortunate now that he had gained the maturity and confidence of a man–

Wait... _what_? Did he just _admire Potter_?!

Blanching, the reaction must have trickled into his visage. Potter’s green eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

“Something _wrong_ , Malfoy?” he drawled in a perfectly even tone, one that Draco would usually ascribe to himself. It was eerie hearing it coming from Potter’s mouth but no doubt a characteristic he had picked up in his recent years as Head Auror to get the answers and allegiance he wanted.

Suppressing a light shudder, Draco’s face promptly smoothed. “Nothing that concerns you, _Potter_ ,” he wrung out between his teeth, accompanied by a haughty glare.

Potter expelled an unsurprised huff and continued in a levelled voice. “Apparently, it _does_ , Malfoy. It seems that is why we are here, is it not?” He arched an eyebrow and did not wait for a reply before he turned to move into the adjacent room. Frowning in annoyance, Draco forced his glare away from sweeping across the Auror’s lean body as he did so, convincing himself he was only staying vigilant about Potter’s movements and behaviour, trying to gain the upper hand of the situation. He was not about to let _Scarhead_ persuade or blackmail him into _anything_ concerning the welfare and future of Scorpius, that Potter offspring be damned!

Angered, Draco clutched his cane in a tight grip and followed Potter inside the sitting room. He was not about to let his temper get away with him either, he wouldn’t give Potter the satisfaction of that. Recalling the way Astoria would gleefully mock him every time he had done so in the past, the thought led him to absentmindedly reflect upon his short-lived marriage.

They may have been compatible on paper but they soon found they had little in common, beside Scorpius, and not even the boy could draw much interest from the mother. Draco loved the boy, much to his own surprise, since he had never expected to come close to such strong, profound emotions after the damaging effects the war. His soul had felt flayed, ripped apart, before he held the tiny, warm, living, breathing bundle of his son in his arms. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to spare his son from experiencing anything remotely similar to what he himself had gone through. Even the boy’s mother’s lack of affection. So, when he filed for divorce and applied for full custody, Draco had simultaneously obtained a villa in a posh area of London which would suit Astoria and made sure Scorpius had a furnished room there that she couldn’t touch, should he choose to stay with her for a time anyway. Astoria made no protests and so it came to be. Scorpius ended up spending most of his time in the Manor when he was back from school and bore no general ill will towards either parent for their choices. Mostly, his interest seemed to lie within school though Draco never took his son for a particularly scholastic child. He loved him too much to chastise him for it as his own father had, but he worried that there wouldn’t be a decent future for him on the other side if Scorpius continued to show so little interest in his academic accomplishments. Draco would so like to see his son become free of the taint still commonly associated with the Malfoy name. For Scorpius’ own sake and for his future children and _their_ children.

So, when Scorpius came home from the first day of school and prattled on about this shaggy-haired boy he had befriended with an all too familiar name, Draco felt his world spin on its axis. A Malfoy befriending a Potter! Never would he have seen the day! Ironically, their friendship proved to become the very reverse of his own relationship with the famous father, and initially Draco couldn’t decide if he was peeved by the fact that Scorpius had such ease befriending the Potter boy or if he hated the latter for trying to insert himself into the good graces of his son. Either way, he didn’t try to dissuade Scorpius from the friendship. In fact, Draco found it hard to say anything negative looking upon the way his son’s face lit up when he talked about the Potter boy. Scorpius was almost the complete opposite of Draco in terms of disposition and Draco had been pleasantly surprised by how open-minded and light-hearted his son was. Of course, Scorpius was aware of the past history between their fathers and often asked about it, but each time Draco deftly avoided the subject by dismissing that Potter ever bore any importance in his existence. Alas, the boy had inherited too much of the Malfoy guile and noticed the pattern of his father’s avoidance of the subject, but said little of it, instead focusing back on his evidently close-knitted friendship with the son of Draco’s school rival.

Then, one day, when Scorpius, now a young man, came home and said he had fallen in love with the Potter boy and that they were in a relationship, Draco felt a need to protest. He didn’t doubt the legitimacy of his son’s feelings and only knew the Potter boy from the rather biased tales from his son. Still, he was _Potter’s_ son and who knew how much of a hothead that boy could be? Was he good enough for Scorpius? (Then again: Would anyone _ever_ be good enough for his son?). He could clearly see Scorpius was head over heels in love. Draco wavered between what to tell his son and opted for the moderated truth until he knew what to do with this new information; that though he was pleased to hear Scorpius was experiencing these new feelings, some concern was raised as to his choice of partner at this stage of his life when he really should be focusing on his career if he wanted to mount to anything. Of course, Scorpius didn’t take it well. He didn’t give up his relationship with the Potter boy either. Draco didn’t expect him to do so right away, though he still hoped they would take some time apart until Scorpius knew what to do with his education. He was in over his head with this boy! Surely, nothing good would come of a Malfoy latching on to a Potter...

That was why Draco had finally stooped to his very _last_ resort.

He was a little surprised to hear from Potter Sr. immediately. Draco had sent an owl to Potter’s office in the Ministry a couple of days after the incident with Scorpius and the quick reply was monosyllabic at best. It spoke of Potter’s concurrence with the worrisome subject (which Draco couldn’t help feeling slightly offended by, despite sharing the sentiment) and agreed to meet up, suggesting place, date and time. Unsurprisingly, Potter had acquired an annoying amount of conceitedness about his own unquestionable authority in his days as Head Auror (as if it wasn’t bad enough already): He had _obviously_ chosen to ignore the fact that Draco had sent his initial note suggesting _Potter_ should come to Malfoy Manor, not the other way around. Glowering, Draco had curtly replied that he was not about to Apparate into Muggle London any time Potter damn well pleased. The instant reply was no less brisk and persistent, conveying that ‘the Head Auror could not defer to Mr. Malfoy’s leisured time schedule and finer sensibilities to Muggle environments. So if Mr. Malfoy would ‘ _please’_ present himself at the given time and place...’ Crumbling the note in his hand, Draco wandlessly levitated and _Incendio’ed_ it, watching it burn and turn to ashes in the air before evaporating completely. _Bloody Potter_.

So, here he was, literally inhaling dirt by coming to a smog-filled, seedy part of mid-town London, perusing Potter’s frankly austere apartment which looked anything but the living conditions worthy of a Head Auror’s salary. He briefly wondered if things had soured between Boy Wonder and the Weaslette. Not that he cared, of course.

Pursing his lips in a mild disgust, he took in his surroundings while Potter was off making tea or something (not that he had bothered asking, in the first place. And, obviously, he wouldn’t have a house-elf either. _How characteristically provincial_ ). Blatantly refusing to take a seat in the sparse furniture (if you would even call them that), Draco remained standing by the door to the narrow entrance hall which carried the distinct odour of curry from the apartment building, tapping his cane impatiently.

Soon, Potter returned from the tiny kitchen holding a tray containing a steaming teapot and some dissimilarly coloured mugs. Somehow, he had found the time to change out of his Auror uniform and into more regular Muggle clothing and the sight was somewhat striking. Draco had sneered enough times during school of the then malnourished wizard’s awful choices of ill-fitting clothes, but in the years since then he had been so used to see pictures in the papers of Boy Wonder (no longer such a boy) in professional outfits, suitable of that of wizard’s, commending his status from war hero to Auror to Head Auror. The present combination of a moss-green sweater and washed-out jeans was frankly off-putting. And yet, not at all unbefitting.

Potter didn’t look over at Draco before he had placed the tray on the coffee table and straightened. He waved a hand towards the old sofa, his expression and voice neutral. “Be my guest.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. It looked like something from a jumble sale or, even worse, a Muggle one. With a resigned sigh, Harry seated himself in one of the opposite chairs and started pouring two cups of tea. Gingerly, Draco drew closer; eyes flickering between the top of Potter’s shaggy dark head and the moth-eaten thing only a blind man would call a sofa. Finally, and grudgingly, he relented, casting a quick cleaning spell before he perched himself on the very edge of it, making sure as little of his expensive woollen ropes touched the thing as possible while keeping a tight grip on the cane planted between his legs.

Ignoring the force of his stare, Potter leaned back in his chair, nursing the hot tea cup in his hand. He looked up, and Draco suddenly couldn’t correlate the stoic image of the acclaimed Head Auror Potter – who defeated Voldemort and caught multiple of his followers since then – with the soft picture Potter now made; cuddled up in his squalid chair with an ugly mug in his hand, looking like the whole world had been standing on his shoulders for far too long. The years had given him lines along his tanned skin, across his brow, by the corners of his mouth under the beard and by the eyes behind the round spectacles. It added character yet also told of an early maturity, a harshness that inevitably manifested itself during school. Draco couldn’t help thinking that perhaps they had more in common that he’d ever dared give credit for.

“So,” came Potter’s voice, sparing Draco from going down that uncomfortable train of thoughts. “What are we to do with these troublesome boys?” A hint of amusement coloured his tone though his eyes hid it deceptively well. Hazard of the profession, most likely, however it didn’t sit well with Draco that he couldn’t immediately read the man opposite him. As a Gryffindor, Potter had carried his feelings on his sleeve most of the time, especially when the Slytherin confronted him, but here, in this domestic setting (which frankly was a new one), Draco felt out of touch. The roles had shifted, evened out. Potter had not become Head Auror for nothing, after all.

Draco’s throat bobbed and he was sure Potter’s gaze briefly honed in on the movement before sliding back up to meet his eyes.

Clearing his throat for good measure, Draco instilled some derision back into his voice. “Well, since you _persisted_ on dragging me _all_ the way down here,” Harry shook his head with a twitch to his lips as Draco continued unabashed, “I surmise you will concur with me on this matter. I only expect that _we_ ,” his lip curled slightly, unaccustomed to the word, “find a solution as quickly and painlessly as possible so we can both be out of each other’s hair. _For good_ , this time. And for both our sons’ sake.” He met Potter’s eyes unblinkingly from across the coffee table. Hopefully, it needed no further explanation. If Potter already agreed on the matter that their sons must go their separate ways for their own good in order to secure their respective futures then there was little else to say.

Potter surveyed him quietly from his chair and Draco couldn’t be certain of the nature of his thoughts. For a moment, he feared he had gotten this whole affair entirely wrong and that Potter in fact _wished_ for their sons to remain together! Surely not?

“As I said in the note,” Harry finally spoke. “I agree with your sentiment. I think they are going into this relationship too hastily,” to which Draco breathed a small, relieved sigh, “ _but..._ do you really think breaking them up will solve anything?”

Draco bristled. “What do you mean, Potter? _Of course_ , it will solve things. Isn’t that what we agree upon?”

Harry sighed. “I’m not sure. I would like to think it was that easy but something like this rarely is,” he reflected with a soft smile, eyes turning wistful.

“Something like this? And what do you suppose that is exactly?”

Harry fixed him with a steadfast gaze, one he likely used to convert even his most staunch opponents. “A very strong love.”

Draco spluttered. _Gryffindors and their bloody maudlin_ – “And you suggest there is nothing to be done? Nothing we can do to prevent them from neglecting everything we’ve built for them and jump headfirst onto this crazy broom-ride and skydive into the pink clouds?”

For a brief second, Potter looked like he was holding back a laugh but quickly composed himself. “Well, I... I see your point. Then again, they have a very strong relationship from my understanding; having been friends, _close_ friends, from day one –”

“Oh, I remember that day. Crystal clear,” Draco interjected bitterly.

“And I believe, it would be futile to break up their friendship entirely,” Harry reasoned, undeterred. “It’s clear for me to see that Al has grown a lot because of that friendship.”

Draco harrumphed. Leave it to Potter to be so bleeding sentimental about this. “So what do you suggest we do instead? Kneel and pray to the higher powers?”

Paying no heed to his sardonic jibe, Harry shook his head contemplatively, his spectacles lenses catching the light. “I would say we suggest to them, separately and patiently, that remaining friends for the time being would give them more space to figure out where they are in life and where they are going. I don’t want Al to make rash decision based on one of your son’s fancies.”

Draco straightened. “Now, wait a minute, Potter! My son has nothing to do with your son’s hot-headed decisions; I can tell you that right now!”

Unconvinced, Potter frowned, the first chink appearing in that careful politician’s facade. “I don’t think you are in any position to question my son’s reasoning, Malfoy,” he warned in return.

Draco’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Then perhaps you should refrain from doing the same in the regards of _my_ son.” Irately, he reached for the ignored mug of now cooled tea in front of him, belatedly realizing the coloured decorations on its side were children’s drawings. Likely Albus’. He stared at the simplistic felt-tip lines for a moment, remembering the similar drawings Scorpius had made him once upon a time; how proud he was of his little figurative imitations of dragons and Muggle houses and children playing in the sun. Suddenly, Draco felt overcome with emotion; a swirling mixture that didn’t rightly settle and he slammed the mug back down on the table. “This was a mistake.” He stood and moved towards the door to the entrance hall.

“ _Wait_ , Draco!”

He froze. The sound of his name on Potter’s lips stirred a strange sensation in his gut.

The Auror’s appeasing voice sounded behind him, its hesitance telling Draco of his mutual awkwardness about the slip. “I wasn’t about to start a quarrel. I apologize.” Draco felt his eyes on the back of his head and waited a minute, then there was a quiet sigh as the other man turned away. Peering discreetly over his shoulder, he spotted Potter clearing the tea set on the table with a flourish of his wand and the tray floated gracefully back into the kitchen where the enchanted dishes started to clean themselves. Sitting back down with a tired expression, Potter placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands, staring thoughtfully into the small fireplace on his left. After a second, the logs magically ignited and Draco soon felt the rather draughty, thin-walled apartment heating up pleasantly, the familiar whiff of burning wood filling the otherwise odious food-scented air.

Emitting a low huff, Draco pursed his lips and turned back around, studying Potter’s darkened profile with thinly disguised annoyance. “I didn’t come here to get insulted, you know. If I did, I would simply have sent a note.”

Harry didn’t stir, only heaved another sigh. “I know.”

Regarding him a minute longer, Draco reluctantly returned to his seat, his posture stiff, ready to jump up and clear out the second Potter should choose to pull that little number again. He would have none of it. “So, here I am. What now?”

Darting a quick look in Draco’s direction, Potter seemed to come up short and stared back into the flickering fire, dragging a hand across his bearded jaw, looking even more exhausted than he had done moments before. Was there more to his worries about their sons’ relationship than he chose to let on? Draco felt a pinch within his chest. No. Surely not. He had never felt anything close to sympathy for the other wizard. Why should he now? But, clearly, Potter hadn’t thought this through, which was odd given his profession and insistence to meet up in _his_ apartment. How did he think this would go down with all the history between them? All cordial and unprovoked? They hadn’t spoken since the war ended some twenty years ago.

Irritated, Draco changed tactics. “Are you really telling me that the best strategy _the_ Head Auror can think of is to patiently suggest to our sons, over time, that being friends is better than being in a relationship?” he countered sceptically, and then, seeing his old rival remained unresponsive, decided to rile him a bit. “Frankly, I’m disappointed, Potter. I thought you were made of sturdier material. I have heard _so much_ ,” Draco humoured himself, “that you are known to be as vicious as you are merciful in an execution of a job; that you hold the Auror Department in a velvet iron fist and practically have the entire Ministry wrapped around your little finger. _Some_ little finger that must be,” he intoned, deliberately scanning the tapered fingers currently clenched into fist on Potter’s knees.

“Lay off the antics, Malfoy.” Harry shot him a brief glower. “I’m in no mood to put up with any of your insipid insinuations.”

Raising a brow, a slow smirk formed on Draco’s lips. “My, my, Potter. You haven’t lost your temper completely despite all that time spent kissing arses in the Ministry. Colour me surprised.”

Now visibly scowling, Potter’s hardened eyes studiously glared into the fire, refusing to take the bait. Draco barely withheld a laugh at the picture he made; so perfectly Potter- _esque_. To think he could still push his buttons was almost too good to be true. He couldn’t help letting out a snicker. “Come now, Potter. Water under the bridge,” he twitted and observed the brief, astounded glance sent his way.

He was oddly tempted to read something more into it.

Then Potter’s tense posture loosened somewhat and he settled back in his chair, pushing the glasses further up his nose and looked straight at him. “Alright, Malfoy.”

Draco swallowed _._

 _Huh._ _Still gullible to a fault. Would have thought him to be more suspicious considering who is sitting in front of him._

A stilted silence followed, and if he wasn’t already so uninterested in carrying a conversation with his former school rival, Draco would have wanted to drop a comment about Potter’s abhorrent conversational skills. “So, where’s the Weaslette these days? Still chasing more trophies for all the wobbly shelves?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Harry leaned forward and Draco was struck by the dangerous glint in those green eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually follow my wife’s career that meticulously, Malfoy?” Amusement laced his voice, making Draco relax a tick. Not that he had _ever_ been nervous around Potter but he was well aware of the power the Auror held within the bureaucracy of this new post-war world. In fact, Draco often suspected Potter had a hand in reducing the more severe repercussions that the remaining Blacks and, in effect, the Malfoys and other Pureblood families could be facing. Not that he blamed anyone for throwing Lucius’ arse and the other high-ranking Death Eaters in jail. But the fact that Potter had testified on behalf of Draco during his inquest at the Wizengamot, resulting in a much shortened sentence (Draco suppressed a shudder; six months were unbelievably lenient) and that the conditions of Azkaban _had_ improved immensely in the last decade (at least, people didn’t die from starvation and madness in there anymore) had been signs of a changed judicial system within the Ministry since Potter’s arrival.

With a curl to his lips, Draco responded drolly. “I don’t live under a rock, Potter, despite what you and your esteemed colleagues might prattle about in your, no doubt, tedious spare time. I _do_ read the newspaper and every time I reach the sports section your wife’s blasted name springs into my eyes. However much I wish I didn’t care for Quidditch, it’s hard _not_ to notice her.”

Potter had the gall to actually grin, resembling that of a proud husband and Draco’s mood soured effectively. “I see. Well, it’s nice to know that her efforts are appreciated. I’m not sure she’ll appreciate it coming from _you_ though, but I wouldn’t really know now, would I?” He scratched the back of his head.

Draco frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean, Potter?” His manicured hand made a none-too-subtle gesture to the flat. “Don’t tell me your little picture perfect is falling apart? Because then I’m sure we’re all truly _fucked_.” Harry winced and glanced away. _Odd_. Things must be less ideal for the Almighty Saviour than previous believed.

Gauging the other man, secretly curious as to _why_ , Draco lifted a bored eyebrow, appearing only _marginally_ interested in what he had to say.

Taken off guard, Potter, in turn, blinked owlishly and turned to worry his lower lip. “We’re... We are not really separated. Yet. I mean, I love her and the kids and I see them as often as I can, though I wish I could find the time to see them more,” he admitted and there was a sense of futility in his countenance. “Believe it or not, we’re still good friends despite it all, but... I guess, we’ve been rather uninterested in the, um, _romantic_ aspects of our marriage for some time now.” He fidgeted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable talking about the subject, perhaps in the presence of his old arch-rival whom he hadn’t seen or spoken to in twenty-odd years.

Draco promptly held up his hands, pretty sure his ears had already started to bleed. Why had he even enquired in the first place? “You know what? I don’t want to know and I don’t care. It’s your business, Potter, and none of mine.”

With pursed lips, Potter spared him a sobering look. “Thanks, I guess?” Then muttered under his breath. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Donning an indifferent mien, Draco shrugged. “I am not here to play your marriage counsellor, Potter. Besides, you’re talking the wrong man on the subject.” Trading glances, it dawned on the otherwise astute Auror what Draco was referring to.

“Oh. Right.”

Draco sniffed. “Yeah. Well.” Who would have thought? The two of them sitting here, talking about wayward children, old rivalries and failed marriages like two old geezers on a bench in Hogsmeade. “Despite your assertions of my apparently _leisured time schedule_ ,” he mock-quoted, causing the corner of Harry’s mouth to twitch into a downward frown, “I can now prioritize _all_ my time into the welfare of my only son.” Whether or not the blithe remark was intended to hit a soft spot regarding Harry’s own admission of spending too little time with his kids, a myriad of emotions briefly flitted across the Auror’s both boyish and hard-bitten face.

“I get it, Draco,” his voice cut through the air, and Draco felt suddenly chilled despite the heat of the fire. _And what’s with the name calling again?_ “You’d rather be elsewhere but remember: _You_ reached out to _me_. I am not as concerned as you about the possible ‘ruin’ of our sons’ welfare because they happen to be in love with each other. In fact,” he sat back, his steely gaze fixed on Draco, “I think it will strengthen them in times to come. _My_ only concern is that they’re too young; that they’re rushing into things.”

One pristine brow arched, Draco retorted flatly. “What, _sex_?”

Harry didn’t bat an eyelid. “Among other things. Kids these days... There’s no knowing what goes on in their heads.”

Draco hummed, unconvinced. “So you’re saying they’re old enough to _have_ such strong feelings, yet too young to ‘benefit’ from them now?”

Potter blinked, nonplussed, then lifted his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “For Merlin’s sake, Draco. Can you not try and nitpick every reasoning behind my suggestions? We agree on the main issue here, don’t we?”

Draco ground his teeth. “Can you stop it with the damn ‘ _Draco’_ all the time?!” Potter’s glasses promptly fell back in place onto his nose as he looked up in surprise. “It gives me the creeps.” Draco demonstratively shuddered and sagged back into his seat; his so-far ramrod posture somewhat defeated.

“I –” Harry started then seemed to mull his words over. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I only meant to be civil but I guess that will never really work with us, will it?” The rhetoric remark left a hollow resonance in its wake between them. Draco grunted noncommittally and turned his face towards the fireplace, watching how the flames licked along the logs. He felt Potter’s keen eyes observing him. _Blast_. He _knew_ coming here was a bad idea.

“How is,” the other wizard ventured again, “how’s it going with you anyway?” Draco’s head snapped towards Harry whose face twitched into an awkward expression. “I mean, you don’t exactly look...”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “ _What_?” What was Potter trying, and so aptly failing, to say?

“Your usual self, I guess.”

Draco snorted wryly. “Thanks a lot, Potter. Coming from you, it’s a real judgment of character. No wonder they made you the Head Auror.” Potter winced again. “You haven’t seen me in over twenty years. I’m spry enough for my age.” Spying the faint tint in the other wizard’s cheeks, Draco flicked his gaze across the Auror’s tired features. “You don’t look so lively yourself.”

Pulling a rueful grimace, Harry rubbed his forehead and heaved a sigh. “I guess we’ve both been more than a little more exhausted from this entire ordeal with our sons.”

 _And our respective, failed marriages_ , Draco thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. “Yeah. Well,” he droned, privately mirroring the sentiment and then expelled a resigned sigh. “I really could use a proper drink by now.”

Harry glanced up with an astonished frown then shot his flat a futile once-over. “I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you in that department. I don’t really have any liquor storage.” He seemed faintly perturbed by this fact and Draco wondered if he had already drunk it all up or if he was actually telling the truth. It was hard to imagine Potter on the wagon and not hiding a small stash of alcohol somewhere. Even a bloody Saint needed a drink sometimes to cope with it all.

Giving him a sceptical look, Draco then got an insane idea. “Right,” he clasped the edge of the sofa and righted himself, “that’s it.” He stood in one smooth move and brushed off his ropes. “Where’s the nearest bloody pub?”

Potter gaped up at him and glanced at his wrist-watch. “Um, it’s 10 pm, Draco,” once again unaware of his slip.

Draco scowled. They had been here for _over an hour_ already? “And? I fail to see the difference. And since when have you become such a spoilsport? Oh, right, you always were.”

With a mildly disgruntled mien, Harry drove a hand through his shaggy hair, making the strands stand up even messier than before. Draco rolled his eyes and made an impatient move to leave.

“You can come with me and get roaring drunk or you can sit here and wallow in your own squalid, self-righteous misery,” he gestured the derisive remark to their surroundings. “Either way, I’m going to get myself a drink. It’s up to you, Potter.” He wasn’t wholly sure why he didn’t just leave; why he stayed put. It was almost as if he _wanted_ Potter to string along. _Honestly_ –

“Alright.”

“What?” Caught off guard, Draco’s voice pitched an octave higher than usual, causing Potter’s lips to twitch. _Damn_.

“I said ‘alright’,” the bespectacled wizard repeated, ducking his head as he rose and turned towards the kitchen. “I’ll just, um, get my coat. I know a place. Wait here.”

Draco picked up his jaw when Harry had left the sitting room. Had he really just gone from A to Z in under a minute with his long-time school rival, literal bane of his existence, and then proceeded to invite him out for a drink?! He felt the world once more spinning on its axis.

Potter returned a moment later; this time having donned an unbuttoned, woollen coat and a pair of Muggle boots. Nothing in his expression gave away his particular thoughts about this little venture and as they wordlessly exited the apartment, Draco bit down on his lower lip and Transfigured his cane into a wand holster on the inside of his ropes. What _were_ they doing? Going out for a friendly drink? _Really_? And what was going through Potter’s mind? Why had he even agreed to come along?

He chanced one or two glances at the wizard walking beside him as they hit the pavement. Potter seamlessly blended in with the rest of the Muggle Londoners, whereas Draco stood painfully out with his pale, blonde stature and expensive Wizarding clothes. He got several looks along their way to this unknown pub that Potter knew about, yet he deftly ignored them. _This_ was why he chose to Apparate in and out of London. He might be an attention-whore but for the right kinds of people. Glaring at a particularly gawping young man who crossed their paths, the Muggle almost barrelled into Harry as a result. Potter silently sniggered and quickly stepped around him.

“ _Muggles_ ,” Draco sneered with vivid disdain and Harry shushed him in half-hearted reproach even though they were out of earshot of the stunned pedestrian.

“You may just have broken his heart, Malfoy.”

Draco glanced back and shrugged nonchalantly. “Nah. Not my type.”

Potter froze mid-step. “What?”

“What?” Draco repeated dumbly, coming to a halt as well though every instinct inside him told him to walk on.

“Um...” Potter started, regarding Draco with an odd look in his dark-green eyes, as if he saw him with an entirely new set of glasses.

“What, Potter?” he snapped impatiently. “Have I suddenly sprouted grass for hair or what?” He drove a hand through his meticulously tousled locks and saw Potter follow the motion and visibly swallow. It made Draco stop and ponder. _Hm._ _Interesting_. So Potter didn’t know Draco was into blokes as well? Well, why would he? It wasn’t as if Potter was likely to read the tabloids.

“Er...”

“Merlin’s balls, Potter,” he jeered. “Spit it out! Do you have something particularly abrasive to say about my choice of bed partners or what?” It was crudely put, but Draco didn’t give a fig.

Snapping his mouth shut, Potter pressed his lips into a thin line and composed his momentary stupor. “No, I – I was only surprised. I guess.” He started to walk on and Draco belatedly caught up with him.

“Hey, wait a second–”

“No, really, it’s okay, Draco–”

“Will you stop with the ‘ _Draco’_ -shite, already?!” Harry halted in his step but refused to look at him.

Surveying the Auror’s tense countenance, Malfoy, in an uncharacteristic manner, stuck his hands in the pockets of his tailored pants. What was up with Potter? “Look, forget about it.” Peering around, Draco drew in an impatient breath. “So, where’s this pub again? I thought I said the _nearest_ not the most remote one you could think of?”

“We’ll be there shortly,” Potter stated in a neutral tone ( _too_ neutral) and walked on, not waiting for Draco to follow.

“ _Bloody_ –” Draco growled under his breath and quickened his step. They continued to walk a couple of paces in strained silence until they reached the downtown district. Draco muttered under his breath when they walked through a particularly trashy area of clubs, horny business men and drunken teens who stumbled into their path. Some of them even had the gall to catcall him. “I _hate_ this part of London.” He continued to scowl at everyone who even so much as _dared_ to glance their way until they finally reached the pub. Shooting its facade a dubious look, he posed. “You’re sure this isn’t also frequented by a hoard of nosy Muggles?”

Potter’s quiet smirk made his scepticism all the more pronounced. “I’m sure. Come on. It was you who suggested this, wasn’t it?”

With a self-deprecating snort, Draco pursed his lips and followed Potter inside. “Yeah, and I’m already regretting it.”


	2. Chapter 2

So. Here they were. At a deserted bar in downtown London on a Friday night. The clock was nearing 3 am. Harry failed to see how they even got to this point. They were never buddies. Certainly never some kind of drinking buddies.

So. What were they doing here exactly? Why had he decided to come along, in the first place? He had asked himself that question over and over again.

“Astoria never much liked when I exerted my natural charms,” Draco preened and Harry let him talk as he had done for the last hour or so while staring down into his drink with a pensive frown, giving a muted response every now and then. “Not sure I should blame her. I mean, when you walk into a bar and one of the National Quidditch Teams is in there, celebrating their latest victory, how can she expect me _not_ to flirt? Have you _seen_ the Irish up-close?” The blonde peered sideways to gauge his expression. “Especially when you ‘play’ for both teams if you know what I mean,” he winked. Harry said nothing, only concentrated harder on the dirty rim of his beer glass as if it had somehow done him a personal offense. He knew the roaring silence left in the wake of the remark would be more than enough for Draco to put two and two together. And true enough: Arching a pointed eyebrow, Draco leaned in with salacious curiosity. “Well, now. You’re getting more interesting by the minute, Potter. For how long have you known this little fact about yourself?”

Harry shrugged, trying to appear flippant about it. “I might always have known; I just wasn’t that interested in acting upon it.”

Both pale eyebrows shot sky-high. “You mean to say you were _never once_ interested in exploring it, like with women?” For someone with an unabashed sexual appetite as Draco, this took some swallowing (no pun intended). Narrowing those mercury eyes at the increasingly flushed features of Potter, Draco drawled. “Why do I not believe you?”

Glancing sideways, Harry shrugged apprehensively, which was a peculiar action for the otherwise authoritative Head Auror. “No... I, well, that is, it was never something I seemed to have the time to explore, so to speak.” When Draco only continued gazing intently at him, Harry became flustered and raked a hand through his dark mop of hair. “I don’t think I ever got to know anyone well enough to act upon it.” _There_. He said it. Now, could Draco just stop staring so intensely at him?

“I can’t believe it.” Snapping his gaze towards the blonde, Harry frowned in chagrin. “The One and Only Saviour of Wizarding Kind has _never_ had a one-night stand!”

“Will you shut up?” Harry hissed under his breath, elbowing the chortling blonde beside him so sharply he almost toppled off his bar stool. Snorting, Draco finally came up for air and was met by a pair of blazing green eyes scowling back at him.

“Relax,” he held up his hands in a gesture of goodwill and regained his leisured posture on the chair with a sly grin. “I won’t tell a soul, Potter. You have my word.”

Squinting, nostril flaring, Harry growled. “Now, why do _I_ not believe _you_?”

With a permanent catlike smirk in place, Draco leaned in close again and Harry was immediately struck by the silvery gleam reflecting in his orbs. “Well, you just have to trust me, don’t you?” Malfoy’s face sparked with undisguised mirth and intrigue; the long, fine-boned features less pointy and sallow than in his younger years. Harry blinked owlishly. He had never really stopped to consider how beautiful the other man was. Like any Malfoy, Draco had always covered it behind that haughty sneer, marring his otherwise generous genetics. Besides, Harry tended to judge a person’s nature and behaviour before he took into account the person’s appearance (okay, apart from Snape perhaps, but who could have seen _that_ coming?). He’d likely never considered Draco to be anything other than the snotty prat he was when they were kids. His opinion had started to waver during the last years at Hogwarts, but he didn’t exactly find himself any closer to wanting to empathize with the other boy before the war was over and he became aware of the cementing facts of Malfoy’s situation under Voldemort’s reign.

When he had been on the quest of redeeming the posthumous legacy of Snape, he had taken the time to take into account what Draco might be facing and ultimately decided to face the entire court of the Wizengamot and, well, everyone else who had it out for the blonde. It helped reduce Malfoy’s sentence considerably (given he had been threatened lifetime like his father) though in Harry’s mind, when seeing Draco’s dirty, cowed appearance in court, _no sentence altogether_ would have been preferable. Still, Harry was not above utilizing his post-war status for something like this, despite the initial protests from Ron and Hermione. After some explaining, expressing his motive wasn’t to excuse Malfoy’s general behaviour, only the way he had acted under the influence of Voldemort, they finally relented, albeit begrudgingly.

Was it really so abnormal that he didn’t want to see Malfoy suffering through the experience of Azkaban for the rest of his miserable life?

Meeting Malfoy again, after so many years, now all grown up and matured, yet still haughty and self-absorbed to a fault, Harry couldn’t help but feeling unnerved by his presence. It was so odd to think that they now both had been married, with children of their own, and come out on the other side of everything that had happened on Hogwarts and the devastating aftermath, and still feel sparks of that age-old animosity the second they stood across from each other again. They were in their early 40s, for Merlin’s sake! And yet, they could still irk each other like a couple of prepubescent boys.

Of course, confessing something as personal and private as his bisexuality to a person like Malfoy might have been a mistake; their newfound understanding or Malfoy’s similar inclinations notwithstanding. He had an inkling both Hermione and Ginny knew though he had never outright said it to either of them. Ron might be a little more oblivious as he was with most things. Not that Harry blamed him though. He had never truly lingered much on the details of the person he liked or admired. He simply found a liking to someone and that was pretty much it, whether platonic or something more.

But that was just the problem, wasn’t it? He never found the time to discover more of what that _something_ could be. Loathed as he was to admit it, being Harry Potter had its disadvantages. Everyone threw themselves at him. Consequently throwing himself into the race as Head Auror with the ambition of dragging every last remaining Death Eater to justice and change the judicial system on a whole hadn’t exactly helped with finding more spare time for romance and such. So when he and Ginny started spending more and more time together, it seemed like the natural conclusion. He loved her and wanted children and the feeling was mutual. It was enough. At least, for the most part of the children’s childhood.

But as they grew older, he and Ginny started to drift apart. The love of their long-standing friendship stayed untouched, yet the romance seemed dwindling. Neither felt the need to rekindle the flame, they only felt the lingering shame of failing to live up to all the aspects of marital duty, however archaic that was. Loads of witches and wizards got divorced nowadays. Still, it wasn’t what either of them had imagined it would come to; they’d imagined staying together, happily married, until old age. So, one day, they simply sat down and talked about it. They could _always_ talk and Harry was so grateful for that. Sometimes, he took for granted how incredibly open-minded Ginny could be when it came to people she loved and cared about. He had seen her mature over the years and though she had never extinguished that stubborn fire in her eyes, she had gradually harnessed it for better purposes when dealing with the hardships and gifts of being a parent. And he loved her for it; had been inspired by her. But they agreed they had little else to give but friendship to each other now.

Strangely, immediate divorce felt equally unnecessary when the kids and their friendship were enough for them to stay married. Was it then an open marriage? Should they separate? They couldn’t readily decide on it and when they confessed it to Hermione and Ron (that had been a rather awkward evening), they seemed equally undecided though understanding in their support. The kids took the news more ambivalently as could be expected. Luckily, they were smart and big enough to understand certain things. Besides, Harry and Ginny assured them that the change wouldn’t be significantly different: Harry would still come and live in the country house with them part-time and he could always expand the work apartment in London if they wanted to stay with him. That seemed to ease their minds, though they still found the arrangement a bit weird to adjust to. Secretly, Harry hoped that having Hogwarts as their second home by now meant that they could find a sense of community outside of their parents’ confusing situation, hopefully distracting them a bit from feeling resentment toward either parent.

Realizing he had zoned out and not responded to Malfoy who was still watching him closely, Harry looked to his feet with a low chuckle. He just couldn’t win, could he? “Alright, Malfoy. I give.”

The blonde looked positively gleeful. Apparently, the alcohol got his blood pumping whereas Harry just felt dulled. Draco’s rain-coloured eyes flashed. “Now, you know, that’s a rather dangerous thing to say to someone like me, Potter, considering what I now know about you. And what you now know about _me_.”

Harry blinked. Once. Twice.

Was he under some kind of spell or– was Malfoy... _flirting_ with him?

Maybe he had heard wrong... He _must_ have. Either _that_ or it had come across as a very sultry threat. Not that it was an unlikely thing for Malfoy to favour. But... Surely, he must have realised who he had just flirted with?

“Um...”

Something else surfaced in those silvery orbs. “Come now, Harry,” he drawled. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, at least?”

“Uh...” It was all Harry could say as he stared slack-jawed at the blonde. The way Draco had said his name, he was sure something had short-circuited in his brain.

“Why don’t you try it now that you’ve been released from the shackles of marriage? Go out there and find any open-minded witch or wizard, and I’ll guarantee you won’t go home alone. You’re _Harry Bloody Potter_ , for crying out loud! Who _wouldn’t_ want you in their bed?!” Opening and closing his mouth, Harry looked stupefied at Malfoy as images of the blonde swirled with the words he had just spoken. Draco turned back in his chair and took a hearty gulp of his bottle, licking his lips, staring ahead of him. “Hell, if you handed me a couple of more beers, _I’d_ be up for it,” he inserted off-handedly, his voice a couple of octaves lower.

Harry gulped and stared back into his glass. Silence stretched, thick and poignant, between them as they sat facing forwards, nursing their half-empty beers. His mind was flooded with thoughts and questions, and he could make sense of _none_ of it. Malfoy was likely having the same debate in his head, given how his profile had taken on a look of concentration, scowling down at the top of the bar counter, his mind someplace else.

This was too much to swallow on a single night. With a defeated sigh, Harry abandoned his beer and stood, a bit wobbly. “I better get home.”

Belatedly, Draco registered his words. His head snapped up and there was a brief look of confusion on his features before they smoothed into his usual guarded mask. He glared back into his bottle. “Right. Sure. You do that, Potter. Better get going.”

Regarding him a second longer; the long, elegant arch of his pale neck and bowed head, the otherwise impeccable hair slightly mussed, Harry decided he couldn’t just leave him there. Draco was probably equally drunk, though he did a good job hiding it, and in no condition to Apparate or Floo.

Sticking his hand deep into the pockets of his jeans, Harry nodded towards the door. “Come on, Malfoy. No need to be sitting here all night.”

Having shed his ropes long ago, now only dressed in his black slacks and an immaculate white shirt, the muscles along Draco’s back visibly tensed. “What if I want to?” he snapped back. “Huh, Potter?” He shot him a sizzling look over his shoulder. “What if I _want_ to stay here all night and get impossibly drunk? There’s nothing you can do, Oh-Mighty-Potter,” he spat, “to stop me.”

Sighing, Harry drove a hand through his hair, oblivious to Draco’s eyes following the gesture and his throat bob. He remained undeterred all the same. “Don’t be a prat, Draco,” he replied with little bite. “I’m only offering because we’re both sloshed.”

Draco’s silvery eyebrows disappeared under his fringe. “You’re... offering?” Missing the double meaning, Harry shrugged with a silent _‘well, yeah’_. Desperately trying to look for any other meaning in Potter’s countenance but finding none, Draco shot out of the chair, grabbing his ropes, surprising the other wizard who blinked and blurted out a laugh. Unable to remain unaffected by Potter’s sudden mirth, Draco cracked a lopsided smile. “Lead the way, Potter,” he drawled, flinging out a hand in mock-politeness and was promptly stunned into silence, his heart-rate speeding up, when Potter’s warm, heavy arm settled across his shoulders in a gesture of drunken camaraderie and proceeded to lead them out of the bar.

It was the alcohol. Simply the alcohol.

They swayed a bit and laughed as they veered down the street, flinging out sporadic comments and mild insults here and there with a slight slurring to their words, making each other occasionally snort, yet none of them picked up the bait to start a row. Weirdly enough. _Must_ be the alcohol’s doing.

Stumbling into the apartment, Harry deposited Draco on the sofa in the sitting room. He straightened and regarded the bleary-eyed blonde already nuzzling into the cushions of the furniture he had been so reluctant to sit in only hours ago. “You want me to Floo you home?” Draco mumbled something unintelligible and rolled onto his side, curling his long body on the narrow legroom. Surveying his drowsy form, Harry sighed, feeling his own head screaming for a good night’s rest. “Alright. You can crash here for the night, Malfoy.”

He Transfigured the sofa into an accommodating bed with blankets and all. Draco muttered something that sounded vaguely like ‘thanks, Potter’ and went out like a light, his breathing slowing down into a light snore. Unable to help himself, Harry stared a couple of seconds longer at the figure of his grown childhood rival sleeping in his living room. Emitting a low groan, he rubbed his sore eye sockets behind his glasses before turning towards the bedroom, crashing into the duvet of his bed, clothes and all. He barely managed to take off his glasses and fumbled a bit to place them on the bedside table. Burrowing his head in his heavenly pillow, he dozed off, thoughts of sly smiles from a certain blonde roaming his dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco woke by a small _clank_ on his right and then the blissful whiff of coffee filling the air. _Hm, Miksy is up early this morning_ , he thought groggily. Groaning, he turned, absently wondering why he wasn’t covered in his usual Egyptian cotton sheets and... _ugh_. Why was he still in his clothes?

A splitting headache surfaced the moment he cracked his eyes open and saw that he _wasn’t_ in his bedroom at the Manor.

“Morning, Malfoy.”

_Fuck, no._

“What the–” He blinked and turned his head towards the source of the last voice he had expected to hear. Potter was standing, fully dressed, on the other side of the coffee table, arms folded and an annoyingly smug smile dancing on his lips. Why wasn’t _he_ hung-over?

Grunting, Draco pushed himself up from the sofa, no wait _bed_ , and rubbed his face in his hands. “Why are you here, Potter?”

Potter snorted. “I happen to live here, Malfoy. You’re the one ‘trespassing’.” Peripherally, Draco sensed him leaning over the table and pushing a mug closer to Draco. “Here. Coffee to lighten up your spirits. Although, in your case, I doubt any amount of caffeine in the world will have permanent effect.” Draco both hated him and loved him in that moment. Grabbing the mug, he took a big gulp of the warm liquid, grimacing at the rather cheap taste but nonetheless grateful for the gesture, his headache immediately lessening. Not that he would say that to Potter’s face. Perhaps reading his thoughts, Potter arched an eyebrow then chuckled. “You’re welcome. I thought I’d put something in there to dispel that _awful_ headache you must be having,” he quipped.

Eyes snapping to the liquid in the cup, Draco’s features hardened. “What have you poisoned me with, Potter?” he spat, ready to chuck up whatever he had just ingested.

Feigning affront, Potter seated himself in the opposite chair, a steaming mug of his own floating into his grip. “Hold your hippogriffs, Malfoy. I only took the liberty to add a little Pepperup Potion to your coffee. Nothing else.” He smirked playfully above the rim of his mug. “You didn’t _actually_ think I would do something like that to you, did you?”

Growling an indistinct response, Draco placed the half-empty mug back on the table and flopped back down, eyes closed, onto the sofa, or bed, or whatever. A couple of moments went by in silence, as memories of the night before came back into his awakening consciousness. _Great. Terrific._ He had gone on a bender with _bloody_ Potter. He had prattled on all night about his marital and _extra_ marital life like some kind of sentimental fool baring his soul. Alcohol never did him anything good, other than honing his flirting skills.

 _Fuck_. His eyes flew open.

Had he _flirted_ with Potter at some point in the evening?

Oh, fuck.

He _had_ , hadn’t he?

That was the reason for Potter’s sudden wish to go home. He remembered that much. The sinking feeling of a not-quite-rejection to a not-quite-pickup line. Why, oh why, had his drunken subconsciousness thought it fitting to flirt with the Hero of Heroes? Of all people?!

But... What had made Potter nervous all of a sudden? It wasn’t like Draco would judge him for his particular inclinations since he shared them himself. Or maybe... _that_ was why the other wizard had gotten so uneasy?

“Something the matter, Malfoy?” came Potter’s voice, with a tinge of what could almost be deemed concern, and Draco belatedly realized his stricken reaction must have shown on his face and that Potter must have been observing him.

“No,” he croaked. “No, I,” he swallowed and drove a hand slowly across his face, “I was only thinking... I probably said some stuff last night that you didn’t want to hear, didn’t I?” It was only a half-lie. He let out a self-deprecating chortle.

When Potter didn’t respond, Draco flicked his gaze in his direction and saw Potter staring back at him with an indecipherable expression. Then he seemed to come out his stupor. “I, uh,” Harry murmured, “I don’t remember if you did.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. _Strange_. He could have sworn Potter just _did_ lie. He huffed under his breath. “Great.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Raking a hand through his hair (which probably didn’t help the awful state it was in already), Draco sat up again and drained his mug with a cringe. “I should probably get going. Especially before Miksy gets too worried about where I’ve been.” He stood up and missed the small twitch on Potter’s lips at the image of _Draco Malfoy_ worrying about the feelings of his house-elf though the blonde would probably just dismiss it with some callous excuse. That man was practically allergic to human sympathy. Or, at least, he pretended to be.

“Right.” Harry sat up. “Well, it’s been a right laugh, Malfoy. We should do this some other time.” He had spoken in jest but Draco’s head instantly snapped in his direction, looking at him wide-eyed. “I mean, uh,” Harry held up his hands. “I didn’t mean like buddies or anything like that,” he scoffed. Merlin, did he hear himself?

Squinting, Malfoy surveyed him a couple of seconds. “Right,” he drawled, still unconvinced, and turned to pick up his discarded ropes, grimacing at their untidy condition. He could feel Potter’s eyes following him. “Something else on your mind, Potter?”

“Uh, no.” Potter blinked. “No, no. You better get going.”

Draco would have snorted and commented on the absurdity of the situation but he held his tongue. This would only get more awkward, what with Potter’s ineptitude to provide intelligible answers in the morning. Fuck, he sounded as if they’d just had –

No. Nope. He would _not_ go down that train of thought.

“So,” he lingered by the door; damn old upper-class customs ingrained in him. How was this supposed to go? They would likely see each other again, either to discuss the issue of their sons’ relationship more or, if unable to prevent it from developing, bump into each other many times in the course of the next years. Either way, it seemed inevitable.

Stifling a displeased noise, he finally met the dark-green eyes of the Head Auror again. “See you around, Potter.” Turning, he hesitated for a millisecond. “And... thanks.” He caught a glimpse of Potter’s stunned nod in acknowledgement before disappearing out the door. Walking down the stairs, he could have sworn there had been a lingering twitch by the corner of Potter’s mouth.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.


	4. Chapter 4

_Merlin_. He hadn’t loved the woman but he hadn’t wished for that kind of ending for her. And so soon. Scorpius would be devastated...

Draco blanched. Oh, fuck.

 _Scorpius_.

How was he supposed to break this to his son? His sweet, gentle-hearted son?

His head was too preoccupied to take any notice of the chime above the fireplace announcing Potter’s untimely arrival. The latter _had_ given him the heads-up that he was coming by to give his personal condolences; the note steeped in polite formality. At first, Draco had merely dismissed it, slightly irked. Should he somehow feel honoured by the Head Auror inviting himself over? _Fuck_ that. And why should he care who Potter came as?

It didn’t even matter anyway. Five months had passed since they last spoke. Draco was hardly heartbroken by it.

Besides, Aurors frequently ‘dropping by’, demanding entrance to his house with some pathetic excuse in order to satisfy their paranoid and quite unfounded suspicions, was not an uncommon occurrence. For most of Draco’s adult life, in fact. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if Potter had dragged his entire entourage of stuck-up sycophants along with him. (Though, deep down, he knew Potter had too much bloody integrity to do something like that).

Couldn’t they all just stay away and leave him alone, for once?

However, Draco found himself increasingly and begrudgingly repentant of his rash dismissal of Harry’s request. It was likely just Potter’s way of reaching out an olive branch. He had known Astoria as well, after all, albeit peripherally.

Quietly, he sent a reply back through Miksy that he would allow his visit.

Was he regretting it now?

The next second, Harry stepped out of the flames; a troubled look carved across his brow as he spotted Draco by one of the windows. Draco kept staring out into the winter garden, noticing several gnomes pestering the plants.

“Draco. I heard.” The lilt of Potter’s words prickled against Draco’s consciousness. However, he barely registered them.

_Really should get a more proficient gardener to deal with the gnomes sometime soon otherwise the garden will turn into a right mess._

“Malfoy?” The voice was closing in.

_I mean, how difficult is it to get a bloody decent gardener to do one bloody simple job?!_

“Draco...” A hand came up to hover above his shoulder. “I’m... I’m so sorry f–”

Draco jerked away from the window and Potter’s hand and steered towards the sofa arrangement by the fireplace. He plopped himself down into the leather furniture and glared into the flames. “You came to say your condolences,” he sneered with his back turned. “And now you have. Good-day, _Potter_.”

He could sense the flinch in Potter’s posture and, for a second, Draco wondered if the dark-haired wizard would actually take off or call his bluff. When Potter started to approach him, like one would approach a wild animal, it proved to be the latter. Once, Draco would likely have scoffed at Potter’s foolhardy stubbornness. When did Scarhead learn to simply _drop_ a subject?

“I know how you feel, Draco, believe it or not,” Harry assuaged and took place in an armchair opposite him. “And there’s nothing I can say that will make it better. At least, not for now.”

Despising the way Potter turned into his consummate Head Auror persona; like a father explaining the world of suffering and pain to a child, Draco shot out his jaw with a haughty snort, still refusing to look up. “Turned shrink all of a sudden, Potter?”

Harry blinked although he shouldn’t really be that surprised by Malfoy’s reaction. It seemed only natural he would snap and get defensive. Recuperating quickly, Harry gently put forth. “Have you talked to Scorpius yet?”

A twinge appeared in Draco’s pinched features and Harry had an instinctive wish to reach out and appease him in some way. He forcibly folded his hands in his lap to keep them there.

“He’s still in Hogsmeade with his class,” Draco muttered. “I haven’t sent an owl yet.” For a moment his eyes closed. “I don’t know how to break it to him.” Something genuine cracked the hard veneer of his voice.

“Draco...”

“No. _Don’t_ ,” Draco cut him off sharply. “I don’t want to hear any platitudes coming from you right now.”

Harry opened his mouth. “I – I wasn’t going to –”

With a scoff, Draco jeered under his breath. “And here we go again.”

Harry frowned. “Malfoy, I wasn’t –” Stopping himself, inhaling deeply, he tried again. “I only meant to say: I’m sorry, Draco. I really am.”

Finally raising his eyes from the floor, Draco pierced him with a sharp stare. “ _You’re_ sorry?! Oh, that’s splendid! Just great!” Harry looked at him wide-eyed as two red blotches formed on Draco’s high, pale cheekbones. “Don’t you think I _know_ that? Everyone’s bloody sorry, you know! I have enough ‘ _sorrys’_ as it is.” He drove two hands through blond locks. “I do not need yours too,” came his muted voice.

Harry snapped his mouth close as he roved the other wizard’s appearance. Draco leaned forward, his elbows resting on his splayed knees with his hands clasped; the long legs accentuated by the perfectly tailored material of his pants. The light of the flames illuminated the angular features of his face, drawn in taut lines. Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy in such a state since the war; he appeared drained and his skin looked practically translucent.

“Why are you here, Potter?” the blonde spoke at length, his upper body expanding in a deep exhale. “We are not friends.”

Harry sat back. “No,” he concurred with a murmur. “No, we are not.”

Draco lifted his head. Did he sound... disappointed? “Then _why_? Why are you here?”

Taken slightly aback by the mercury slits trained in on him, Harry hedged. “I... I wanted to give my condolences.” The eyes across from him narrowed and Harry rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “And I... I thought you might need a hand, you know, with the funeral. I know it’s not my place but I –” _heck_ , he might just come out and say it since it had been on his mind the entire afternoon, “I would very much like to be here, if... If you need me.” He gulped down the ball of nerves in his throat and once more fastened his gaze on those impossibly silver eyes before him.

“And why,” Draco drawled slowly, “pray tell, would I need _you_ of all people?” he challenged unblinkingly and something thick and fuzzy slid downwards in Harry’s stomach.

Draco tilted his head and observed Potter first blanch and then a tint of colour hitting his cheekbones. How odd it was to watch the Great and Mighty Hero of Wizarding Ages turning flustered in his living room! And, likely, on account of _him_... for some reason. Draco didn’t know what to think of that, honestly. Nor the offer, for that matter. Nobody had _ever_ asked any Malfoy such a thing. It was simply not done within Wizarding aristocracy; to get help from non-family members or Half-Bloods regarding private family affairs.

And yet, years had passed since he himself had done anything to uphold those particular and, frankly, archaic and tiresome traditions, and he couldn’t help considering the offer. It _would_ be nice to get someone to help with all the basic arrangements required for a Wizarding funeral, especially since the Greengrasses would defer the responsibility (not to speak of _the bill_ ) to him anyways. Not that he couldn’t get Miksy to do the heavy lifting but he sometimes felt he relied too much on his little helper (he was getting oddly sentimental in his old age; so sue him). Or, he could just send an owl to Blaise, even though the Italian resided in his native soil nowadays. Maybe he could off his lax arse and help out for bloody once. Or even Theo? No, scratch that idea. Nott Jr. likely couldn’t decipher a carnation from a rose if he saw one.

Sighing, Draco dragged his palms across his face. _By the gods_ , it had been a long day. He felt like crawling out his skin and discard the old one right here on the floor, freeing himself of the weight that bore down on him.

A throat cleared softly across from him and he withdrew his hands to look up. He had almost forgotten all about Potter still being here. Why _was_ he here? His age-old distrust of Potter welled up; especially now that he was in Auror’s uniform. What kind of agenda was hiding behind those green irises glancing so innocuously back at him?

Before he could say anything, however, Harry rose from his seat, dusting off some imaginary fluff from his pants. “I... I’ll leave you to consider it, at least.” He straightened yet hesitated to leave; his face telling Draco there were still more he wanted to say. He then seemed to think better of it and shot Draco a wary half-smile. “I hope, despite everything, that you know you can always call on me. For anything, Draco.” Turning he started to walk towards the fireplace.

Draco stood up with a half-spoken _‘thanks, Potter’_ on his lips just as Harry disappeared into the flames. Staring after him for several minutes, he let out a miserable groan and slumped back down into the sofa, head in his hands.

_... Such a long, long day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I have tweaked Astoria’s characterization and storyline a bit. Despite still ignoring much of what happens in The Cursed Child, I do include her canon death though it is set a bit later in this fic, around Scorpius’ fifth year.


End file.
